


I Hold It Towards You

by TheEternal (XxmaniacxX)



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Intrusive Thoughts, Read at own discretion, References to Depression, big trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2019-11-13 00:01:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18021017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XxmaniacxX/pseuds/TheEternal
Summary: Spencer Reid has recently earned his 2-year sobriety chip. He should feel good. He knows it should feel good, but why doesn't it?(or the one where reid takes up another unhealthy coping mechanism to stop the Dilaudid cravings)





	1. surely the mind of man is closely bound

_ Wake up. _

_ Get dressed.  _

_ Have Breakfast _ . 

 

Spencer Reid's routine had never differed, or at least that's what he wanted to believe. As he repeated the actions in his head the sun filtered out and into the room. 

 

A sudden warmth and an **itch** kept him from setting into motion. That **damned** **itch,** calling for him. He knew ( _wake up. get dressed. have breakfast.)_ that it wasn't worth it ( _wake up. get dressed. have breakfast.)_ and he would only _(wake up. get dressed. have breakfast.)_ feel ashamed. He _(wake up. get dressed. have breakfast)_ could _(wake up. get dressed. have breakfast.)_ fight _(wake up. get dressed. have breakfast.)_ it. 

 

Cold feet racing to the bathroom's cold tiles. Fumbling hands. Cabinet doors opening and closing, opening and closing. He couldn't keep any,  _ not even a drop  _ in his house. But if he closed his eyes hard enough, maybe it would go away. But if he closed his eyes as he felt the blade between his fingers, maybe it wasn't happening to him. And if he did it and cleaned it and bandaged it somewhere no one could look, maybe nothing had even happened at all. 

 

He rode that painful endorphin high the whole morning. For the rest of the early office, Reid was going about as usual. Not that they would think much of it. The young doctor didn't, **couldn't,** even imagine the team thinking about him, about  it .

 

_ as long as i keep clean, i keep sober, i can do my job and as long as i can do my job,  _

_ why would they bother? _

 

A pat on the shoulder caught him off guard, along with a break in the comforting silence.

 

“Morning, Reid” 

 

A quite tired Derek Morgan was the source. He dumped his jacket on the desk, cursing the pile of paperwork. 

 

“Maybe I can help you with that? I mean, I've already finished mine and unless a case comes in this early…” 

 

Spencer trailed off, trying to get Morgan to accept. He needed a distraction from the buzz. Any distraction. 

 

_ selfish, so selfish, you don't even  _ **_want_ ** _ to help Derek, you only want to escape, selfishselfish- _

 

“Thanks, Kid” he started as he finally sat down “but I can m-”

 

_ CLANK _

 

_ a hiss of pain _

 

**_“shit!”_ **

 

Both men went straight for the kitchen. JJ was standing in a puddle of ceramic pieces, both hands resting on the counter. The smell of coffee was intoxicating. Morgan approached her first.

 

“You okay?” 

 

“Yeah, the mug just slipped right out of my hand”

 

All three bent to pick up the pieces. Spencer found the new quiet deafening, distracting. Good thing he knew so many “useless” facts.

 

“Did you know that the word  _ mug _ used to indicate a picture of a prisoner or person’s head. In 18th century, drinking vessels were called  _ mug _ because it has the same shape with people’s head. There is no exact record as to-”

 

A hushed curse stopped his rambling dead in its tracks. JJ had a jagged cut that was staining her whole palm.

 

“Derek, go get the first aid kit; it should be in Hotch's or Rossi's bathroom” 

 

He sprinted back with everything. Gauze, bandages, band-aids, rubbing alcohol, even some antibacterial ointment. 

 

Watch was all the older colleague could do; the young doctor worked his magic on the wound, every movement flowing almost mechanically. It seemed as if he did it often, a shudder of worry ran through his whole body. He wished he had  **never** had that thought. 

 

“He is a doctor after all, you know” 

 

Suppressing a jump from Hotch's sudden presence, Derek nodded. But he was half-right. Spencer wasn't a  _ medical _ doctor, he didn't have years of practice in a E.R..

 

“He spent all those years looking after his mother and himself, Morgan. The kid is fine.”

  
That man was reading his mind. Damn. In the end they both sighed, hoping that everything was,  _ and would be _ , alright. 

 

At least JJ and the rest of the team could go on with their tasks. For now.


	2. the feel of not to feel it

The team flooded into the meeting room, García and JJ already there with all the images on the screen.

 

“This is 24-year-old Edward Apter. Local Californian police found him underneath layers of foliage and branches. With torn ankles and wrists”

 

_ Torn ankles and wrists? _

 

“Buried?” Hotch's voice calm as always

 

“Not intentionally, at least. The report indicates he died almost 8 months ago. And taking into account the decomposition, the body got dumped there at the same time”

 

“Left for Nature to take care of” commented Rossi

 

“Another body was found the exact same way a month ago, two miles apart from the other. Wrists and Ankles torn.”

 

“Well, there is a clear connection, but why call us now?” Prentiss pressed.

 

García pressed another key and the question answered itself. The image of a young man, who couldn't have been more than 30,  nailed to a tree,  **_crucified_ ** . The clothes still on him, a bloodied sweater vest, a torn dress shirt, muddy jeans. Medium length hair matted against the skull. 

 

_ He looks like… he looks like me ?! _

_ They all look like me... _

_ Or am I losing my mind?  _

 

Spencer was so deep in thought that JJ's voice had faded into the background.

 

And it rang and rang and rang and rang and rang and rang and rang and rang and rang inside him. The shot that killed Tobias. It kept ringing. Never stopped. Kept replaying over and over and over. Sweat in his scalp. The leaves. Being dragged through the leaves. And the ringing wouldn't stop. He saw everyone talking, he read their lips. The case.

 

_ focus on the case, just focus and do your job. everyone is going to stare at you. they are expecting you to say something.  _

 

_ c'mon kid, can't you prove yourself useful? _

 

_ did the cat eat your tongue? _

 

_ or are you losing your mind? c'mon, say something. _

 

_ everyone has bad days but this is ridiculous! You are at work, stop it. stop it. stop it. _

 

_ you need something to take the edge off. something that can help you now. help you do your precious job, something sh- _

 

“Wheels up in 20” 

 

Hotch's reassuring voice pulled him back. Anxiety threatened to break through his skin and eat him in one bite. The ringing, dulled. But still there. He walked slowly out of the room as not to raise any suspicion. 

 

_ Go-bag, just get your go-bag and everything will go back to normal.  _

 

Spencer kept a death grip on his belonging, a sick feeling bubbling up inside of him.

 

_ Almost there and you can get peace, and you can think clearly again. Almost there. _

 

Empty stalls. The itch running through his veins. Quick. Locked door. Unzip. 

 

A warm hand rested on his bare thigh, feeling the skin. Uneven, bumps and craters, old and new. It had been some time since he had allowed himself to  **trace** them, to  **feel** them. Most were healed. Most. Sick, he felt sick again. He didn't want to think about them.

 

_ fucking sick, selfishselfishselfishselfishselfish _

_ how can you be thinking about doing  _ **_this_ ** _ at work? _

_ you're a useless addict, useless pain junkie, _

_ stop it! stop doing this! _

_ uselessuselessuseless _

_ open your eyes and see the damage, coward _

_ attention seeker, selfish addict, useless, stop it,  _ **_useles-_ **

 

Nothing. Blissful emptiness. He ran a thumb through it, assessing by touch alone the depth. Maybe it was happening to someone else. The dermis barely bled. A band-aid would be fine. Clothes proper and a clear mind. He was fine.

 

One smile reflected in the mirror and off into the plane he was.

  
Spencer Reid had a routine, and it almost never differed but when it did, it was hell on earth. 

He could go on days without breaking into the habit, weeks he had managed before. Yet between Dilaudid  _ (and the haze, and confusion and ‘oh god where's the dealer?’ and raised eyebrows, those fucking profilers and their raised eyebrows)  _ and Pain _ (and the blood, and the gauze, and the scars, pink raised scars, those disgustingly bright pink scars)  _ he would always pick the later. 


	3. for a long dreary season, comes a day

The plane ride went about as usual, and Hotch separated the team into groups for different tasks. A small wave of relief washed over him when he was told to go with Emily to talk to the families.

 

Spencer couldn't bear to think about the crime scene. 

 

Those  _ dreadful _ images kept popping into his mind: the latest victim, the graveyard,  _ his thighs _ , getting shot in the knee,  _ shooting Tobias _ , shooting Dowd,  _ Hotch kicking him _ . He lingered in the last one, just for a second. His superior was there, right in front of him, reading the M.E's report for the third time. For a fleeting second he wished to relive that day, for him to have kicked harder, to have walked away with a broken rib. For a fleeting second that had happened, and the manufactured memory of pain was all he needed.

 

“Everything alright, Reid?” the older man inquired, unreadable expression as usual. 

 

Reid waited a full beat before answering. He knew he couldn't  _ lie  _ but getting away with a half-truth was enough right now.

 

“Yeah, but, I…” gulping down to stall for time, he hadn't thought it through.

 

_ I just have been cutting myself because i replaced my Dilaudid addiction with a pain addiction, Hotch, and i don't know how to say that i have a problem.  Now just dismiss me for a month and have the entire Bureau know a useless, pathetic freak who  _ **_made_ ** _ the psych eval can't pass one without cheating! _

 

“I just see myself in the victimology, you know? And it's made it bit harder for me to look at the crime scenes, or the victims. They are my age, my build, they even  _ dress _ like me and i'm...” he didn't have the courage to admit it

 

“...and you're trying not to lose it. I get it, Reid. Sometimes we lose it, it's part of the job, but we need you right now.”

 

Firm but reassuring words. That was exactly what he didn't know he needed. His whole body released a tension he didn't know it had been holding.

 

“Take a nap, Spence. We still have another half hour. It helps,” chimed in JJ, having overheard the conversation “trust me.”

 

The young agent could already feel himself dozing off.

 

* * *

 

“I am so sorry guys but we will have to pair up, the hotel is full”

 

_ I guess i'll end up rooming with Derek. Rossi and Hotch are already good friends and JJ and Emily are the only women. _

 

Agent Prentiss was the first to start. “I take JJ” and she agreed playfully. 

 

_ knew it _

 

“Don't pair me with Reid” Pleaded Morgan, looking at his superior straight in the eye. 

 

_ What?!?! _

_ Have I heard right? _

 

Rossi piped up, “i'll take Derek then” 

 

“And i'll go with Reid” ended the exchange.

 

_ What was all that about? _

 

“Let's meet at the station in an hour, call if you find anything urgent”

 

* * *

 

Sharing a room with Hotch made Spencer uneasy. He couldn't quite put his finger on why, though.  _ Maybe _ it was that when he showered there was a chance of him  _ seeing _ them.  _ Maybe _ it was that when he rummaged through his bag he was afraid of  _ it _ slipping out.  _ Maybe  _ he was just emotionally drained from feeling so much and  _ not _ taking care of it. And the case did not help, if only, it made it worse. 

 

Somehow, he managed to keep it in until it was time to go home again. Reid just needed to focus on packing and first thing the next morning they would be on their way back. Just needed to focus on anything but  the itch .

 

_ we caught the unsub, the case is over, just calm down. _

_ calm down, breathe, it's over, stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it _

**_we?_ **

_ calm down, breathe, you can fight it, stop _

**_they caught the unsub, you just watched from the car like a coward!_ **

_ shut up, stop it, shut up, shut up, shut up _

**_i know what you want right now, because you are a junkie_ **

_ no, stop, i don't have any with me, and even if i had i don't want it, i don't want, no, i don't want it, go away _

**_keep trying to act like it's over, c'mon_ **

_ but i do know! shut up! just, shut up! i'm over two years off dilaudid, stop, i am recovering, i should feel good, i know i should feel good, why can't i feel good?  _

**_you know why_ **

 

* * *

Aaron Hotchner just wanted to sleep that night. He would've collapsed on the bed with his suit and tie still on if he hadn't been rooming with Reid. It's not like the young man minded, but it felt wrong to  _ indulge _ in his bad habits in front of the other man. 

 

He checked the time before entering, it wasn't  _ that _ late.

 

The room was cold, which wasn't out of the ordinary for a winter's night. Yet the cold felt wrong in his nose and throat and lungs. It was quiet. Too quiet. And his roomate wasn't sleeping. 

 

_ Spencer left to pack hours ago, where is he? _

 

Hotch looked around, hoping to see the younger man sitting on the floor reading a book or something. But to no avail. 

 

“Reid?” he called out, firmly but not too loud; these hotel walls were generally paper thin. A small, strangled sound slipped from the en-suite bathroom. 

 

_?!? _

 

Hotch drew his gun and approached the door quietly. If someone was holding him in there, they were going to have to face him first. 

 

“ **Reid?** ” He asked again, loud and clear, as he bust open the door.

 

“H-hotch!” 

 

Blood, all the agent could see was the blood on his hands and legs and shirt. It was bright, maybe there wasn't much but it was bright and stuck out like a sore thumb. Defensive hands up. Terrified.

 

Spencer's eyes were focused on the gun held out still. Bloodshot, puffy, almost bruised, but focused. He followed as his superior put the weapon back in its place. He then calmly crouched beside him. 

 

Pants down to his ankles. Bloodied towel in hand. Bloodied hands. And  _ that _ scared expression. Reid had been crying, it was obvious. Snot and tear tracks covering his reddened cheeks. 

 

“What happened?” Hotch's voice achieved a softness unheard before. His gaze darting between the scarred thighs and those hazel eyes. 

 

“I'm not suicidal. I swear i'm not, i'm not.” Blurted out, breaking mid sentence. He looked at the other man straight in the eye. Sleeves rolled all the way up.

 

_ Please, i'm  _ **_not_ ** _ lying. You know more than anyone that i have enough anatomy lessons in me to know where to cut safely. Please believe me. _

 

“Can you move?”

 

he nodded from the floor.

 

“Do you need help cleaning yourself up?”

 

Spencer bit his lip, thinking.

 

_ Why is he being so helpful? Why isn't he shouting and berating me? Why isn't he pushing for  _ **_real_ ** _ answers? _

 

“I've run out of band-aids…” 

 

_ such a useless junkie, can't even hide it right. _

_ attention seeker, being all sheepish and coy and shit. _

**_stop it!_ **

 

He brought back a fresh towel and more band-aids.

 

“Do you mind if,” he cleared his throat, keeping a chilled facade “Do you mind if i'm here with you, while you clean?”

 

“It's fine”

 

Reid started, moving efficiently. First, rubbed the blood smudges on his shirt with peroxide. Second, alcohol on his thighs, bandaid after. Third, pants. Fourth, remember the Hotch in the room.

 

Open. No sound would come out. He wanted to talk, to give an explanation, a defense. But nothing. He wanted to address the situation. Close.  


A palm on his shoulder pushed him out of the bathroom.

 

“Spencer,” it felt weird to use first names, rolled weirdly off the tongue “you may be  ~~ tired ~~ exhausted tonight but we will have to talk about this tomorrow, ok?”

 

“I need you to say that you understand that”

 

“I understand.”

 

“Good, get some rest, kid.”


	4. fill for me a brimming bowl (and let me in it drown my soul)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hotch and Reid have a conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra trigger warning for referenced previous suicide attempt.   
> Please stay safe!

The flight back to Quantico was brutal. The anxiety, the self-hatred, and that damned feeling of guilt. All cooking up inside the very core of him, being stirred and tossed around. Hotch wouldn't stop looking at him over the report he was writing. Derek wouldn't acknowledge his presence. Rossi slept. JJ was with  _ another _ report. Prentiss had headphones. 

 

_ I guess i'm left alone with my thoughts. _

_ fuck. _

 

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, scenarios popping up like virus on a screen. He couldn't focus on anything else.  


 

_ you’re going to get fired!  _

 

**_or worst, institutionalized_ ** _.  _

 

_ oh god, they are going to put me with my mother. _

 

_ and everyone’s gonna visit at first, “poor spencer, he doesn’t have anyone else” _

 

_ and then, little by little, they’ll vanish. _

 

_ time between visits will be longer _

 

_ more and more excuses _

 

_ fewer letters _

 

_ at some point mom is going to die _

 

_ and you know that, _

 

_ you know you might not be suicidal now _

 

_ but what if you were all alone, _

 

_ no friends, no family, no job? _

 

_ rotting away, locked up? _

 

**_stop it. stop it. stop it. stop. just stop. stop thinking._ **

 

**_..._ **

 

_ maybe some music will help _

 

* * *

The office’s blinds were immediately closed once Reid walked in. 

 

“What do you think is going on there?” Derek gossiped. Everything about last week felt out of place.

 

“No idea” 

 

Emily had a gut feeling that something was wrong. She looked at JJ, she knew Spencer the best. If someone had answers, it would be her. 

 

“I don’t know, guys.”

 

They were all silently conjuring theories, but none was **good enough, made sense enough** to share.

 

Defeated, all three watched closely and waited for them to step out.  


 

* * *

 

“Hotch, i know you’re going to fire m-”

 

“Who said anything about firing you, Reid?” He squinted in confusion. 

 

“Did yesterday not happen? Because  **I** know you’ll have to report me.  **You** know you’ll have to report me” he sighed, not sitting down in the chair laid out for him.

 

“The Bureau can’t have someone like me” was barely a mumble under his breath, but his boss catched it.

 

“Spencer, the first thing you said last night was that you weren’t suicidal.”

 

_ he's talking to me like i'm a confused toddler.  _

**_I_** **_know what i said_**

 

“What do you mean by people like you?” 

 

_ How can he be so calm? How can he act so confused?  _

 

Spencer started pacing around, back and forth in front of the other man's desk.

 

“You know, Hotch. You know what I mean” 

 

“No, I don’t. Tell me”

 

With a deep, shaky breath he answered. He admitted it. Everything was slipping out of his reach.  _ Why keep hiding?  _ **_you are done, done done don-_ **

 

“I’m an addict.”

 

“There! Happy?”

 

“Now that you made me say it does it make you feel any better? Now you know, as if you hadn’t noticed before. You’ve known about my Dilaudid problem since it first started, and, and,” he tossed a purple coin on the desk towards him “and i’m better. I’m two years sober, Hotch. Two years. But the only thing keeping me sane, keeping me sober is the fucking blade!”

 

Tongue rolled heavy. Hands sweating lightly. His chest was under a hydraulic press. He was imploding and exploding all at the same time. Skin felt stretched out over his bones, thin. He couldn't stop talking, expanding, pacing, coming, going, looking. He couldn't stop, he'd already started.

  
  


_ Maybe that's how the big bang felt. _

  
  


“How am i supposed to win this? I never asked for it in the first place, one day i fucked up staving off the cravings and a year later it’s routine. It’s not longer for just the itch of a fix, it’s for every case that burns me out, every trigger that comes up, every flashback, it’s for every nightmare and every dissociative state. It’s not fair, Hotch. It’s not fair even though it’s my fault.”

 

Short of breath and fighting off the nausea, he sat down. Tears threatened to fall at any blink. 

 

“I know it's my fault for trying the first time.”

 

_ Wow, nice one Spencer! Now you really look and sound mentally unstable. Did you even try? Real good for your job, uh? _

 

Hotch observed him for almost a full minute, in silence. His neutral expression was different, softer. His eyes, glass-like. His frown, no longer there. It was terrifying. There was no way of reading what he was thinking. 

 

“Spencer, you are not alone”

 

_ He doesn't care. Why should he? _

 

“I’m sorry that it may have seemed that way, but we are a family. We are your family.”

 

_ He just wants your brains for the case. Less work. _

 

“I'll make an educated guess and say that nobody outside that door would judge you, should you confide in them.”

 

_ Bullshit! He's talking about the team that ignored you cries for help, the first time. What's new? _

 

“But you need to reach out first. It doesn’t have to be a big secret.” 

 

_ Enough! Shut up! _

 

“It’s so easy for you to say that. I know you’re trying your best. But you don’t know. You don’t know.”

 

Spencer kept shaking his head,  _ maybe _ that voice would fall off.  _ Maybe _ his boss would stop being a self-help pamphlet.  _ Maybe _ he would finally wake up from this nightmare.  _ Maybe _ he was still at the graveyard, having the trip of his life.

 

“Have you ever seen me without my watch?” the question took him by surprise. 

 

And he thought. 

 

_ i’ve never seen Hotch without his watch, not even when he was at the hospital, not even when he  _ **_sleeps_ ** _. _

 

“No, you’re always wearing it. It’s practically glued to your skin, it doesn’t move from your wrist”

 

“Do you know why?” 

 

_ Is he… Is he nervous? _

 

“No”

 

Aaron Hotchner knew that this day would come, sooner or later. What he didn’t know was in which circumstances. He removed his watch in public for the first time in over fifteen years.

 

_ What the fuck? _

 

It had taken his skin colour, maybe a shade lighter. A long horizontal scar, from side to side of his wrist. The tissue had obviously healed, but it had left a visible bump. 

 

“I was about your age.”

 

_ Nononononono _

 

“I was still looking for a job, no law firm would take me in without prior experience. Haley and I had had a huge fight and she’d gone back to her parent's house. I didn't have enough money for that week's rent. I had no way to contact my family or hers.”

 

_ And we all know that he has shown signs again and again of having been brought up in an abusive household. It's almost logical for him to- _

 

“Basically I had no money, no job, no girlfriend, no family.”

 

“And I thought that too had been my fault.”

 

_ Fuck, Hotch, of course it wasn't your fault _

 

“Now, Spencer, I'm not telling you this as a way to gain your sympathy. You know me better after all this time. I'm telling you this because I need you to understand that I care.”

 

_ stop, stop, no,  _

**_what did i do?_ **

_ shut up, shut up, shut up, shut u- _

 

“That you are not alone. Never. You can call me anytime.”

 

_ stop being so nice! _

_ shitfuck _

_ don't cry, don't, don't  
_

 

“And my door is always open for you, unless chief Strauss is already here”

 

Both men chuckled lightheartedly, forgetting for a fleeting moment what they'd been discussing just a few seconds before. Forgetting the tears held back. Or the sobs stuck on their throats.

 

_ Who would've thought, THE Aaron Hotchner cracking a joke about his superior. _

 

The young doctor pocketed his purple chip as he stood up. Without a word, he understood. His boss behind, leading him outside. Curtains still drawn.

 

Stopping a few steps from the door he spun in his heels, facing the older man directly. 

 

“I promise to try and stay clean, Hotch. But I have one more thing to say.” throat dry as a desert, licking his lips in hesitation “It's more of a question than a statement”

 

“What is it?”

 

“Do you think the others have noticed?”

 

He bit his lip lightly, trying to phrase it in a way the young man wouldn't feel guilty. He obviously cared about the team and what they thought. 

 

“I think they noticed you are going through something and they want to help. But it's up to you to tell them.”

 

Aaron flashed a small but reassuring smile. It meant everything to Reid.

 

_ Maybe things are going to be easier from now on? _

**_useless AND naïve_ **

_ shut up! _

 

* * *

Prentiss, JJ and Morgan looked away when the door swung open, both objects of their interest stepping out. Yet it was obvious. 

 

_ You'd think they'd be able to hide it better… _

 

“Hey, Reid, everything all right?” 

 

The young man passed by him, as if he hadn't heard him. Headed straight to the small pile of folders, he let the others swarm around. 

 

“It looked pretty serious to me, with the curtains down all the way.” added Emily, joining the  _ worried  _ _ and _ _ curious _ team.

 

“I needed to report something” 

 

Such a nonchalant answer took them aback. That was not the answer they hoped for. But, honestly,  **what** were they expecting?

 

“you know, if you need anything…” JJ being the third member of  _ said _ club.

 

Still engrossed in what he had on his desk, he refused to let them see his face. Reid was in a hurry. At least he was pretending to be in one.

 

“I know.”

 

Sharp. 

 

_ that was unnecessary _

**_and rude_ **

 

Letting out a huff of frustration, paper folder in his hand, he gave them a taste of his face. A split second was enough, he needed to move. He needed to see  **_her._ **

 

“I need to check a file with García, sorry, i'll be back soon”

 

And just like that, he was out of the bullpen.

 

“Let's hope Penelope does her magic”  

 

Derek was tired of this tug war. He needed answers. And he would get them sooner or later. Even if he had to relentlessly annoy Reid, he would get them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be updating every friday until the story's done.
> 
> Feedback is more than welcomed!


	5. open eyes that never daze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spencer chats with Penelope about nicotine and recovery. Derek wants answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra trigger warnings:  
> mentions of smoking  
> alcohol consumption
> 
> stay safe!

Penelope García was not used to people hanging on her lair. 

 

Except for Kevin. 

 

Still, she didn’t mind the company but for most of the time, she felt better on her own. To be surrounded by only herself, and her toys and quills and papers and colour gave her peace. With a job like that, she needed the peace.

 

And she was having one of those peaceful moments when a certain someone knocked on her door. She opened up to an unexpected guest, cup in hand and yellow folder under his armpit.

 

“García, I brought you some coffee” 

 

The gesture was sweet, and his voice didn’t have an out of the ordinary tone, but his face told a different story. Spencer’s face was stained around the eyes, like old yellow bruises left unattended for too long stain the skin. His cheeks were also a shade redder, as if he had an involuntary flush. And his hair stuck to his skin, not greasy but also not clean. 

 

It was something hard for her to look at. She felt as if she had missed an important event, forgotten a memo.

 

“Thank you, my love, but you didn’t get one for yourself?” 

 

She took the coffee in, sitting in her big chair, hoping the other man would enter behind her. 

 

“I got the one you like, with two pumps of hazelnuts, half a pump of strawberry but skim milk and no cream.” 

 

He didn’t answer the question, he didn’t feel like he had to. The young man kept staring blankly at her, standing in the doorway. Penelope could’ve sworn his eyes were wetter than a second ago.

 

“Reid, don’t you want to come in?”

 

Only then he moved. Still, he kept acting strange, out of character. She knew something was wrong. Something was “my mother died in front of me” level wrong. He was stiff, and his eyes kept getting wetter and wetter and he looked at the other chair and he obviously wanted to sit but he just stared at her. She didn’t know what she was supposed to do.

 

“Can I ask you something?” 

 

Sounding like a hurt puppy only made her answer without a thought.

 

“Anything, you can always ask me anything”

 

_ I might not have the answer, but i bet i can find it. _

 

“Have you ever done something that you’re not proud of?”

 

Penelope had no idea what was going on behind those hazel eyes. But she answered as truthfully as she saw fit. She’d been reckless as a teenager, nothing was too much back then. Reid didn’t need to hear all of it.

 

“Of course, but the thing is not to only regret them but to learn from them too.”

 

“For example, I’ll never smoke outside of a Denny’s parking lot at 3 am on halloween again because it only ends up in a pickle. And by pickle I mean a fist fight with a racoon who wants your cigarette and a bunch of drunk kids encouraging it.”

 

Spencer’s eyes lighted up and a small laugh escaped his lips. The woman in front of him could make anyone feel better, even if it was for a minute. Penelope “Sunshine” García they should call her. 

 

Yet, something bugged him from the ridiculous statement.

 

“You smoked?”

 

“I used to. I don’t anymore, obviously, if not i wouldn’t have this perfect voice.”

 

He was hesitant to ask, after all, it was none of his business.

 

“When did you quit?”

 

The blonde took a sip, enjoying the odd conversation. Reid was always full of answers.  _ Good to see him with questions for once. _

 

“I was 19. I woke up one day and I couldn’t bring myself to light a new one. The calm it gave me wasn’t worth the smell of my clothes, or having a hard time breathing anymore.”

 

“Was it hard to stop? Nicotine is highly addictive, and-”

 

“Yes, it took time and effort and a gazillion boxes of nicotine patches. But I haven’t had a cigarette since.” Her statement was full of pride.  _ And she should be proud of herself. _

 

“You know, Spencer, honey, I love talking to you but why are you so interested in this?”

“Is everything alright?”

 

“I don't want to lie to you, García. But I don't want to talk about it either”

 

His voice cracked and she just wanted to stand up and give that man a blanket, a hot cocoa and a bear hug. Instead, she stayed there. Maybe next time she would attack him with love.

 

“It's ok, you know you can call me! I'm available 24 hours a day, **every day** . You can tell Mamma everything, my dove.”

 

And with that, he left. A small smile, but a smile after all.

 

_ Too bad it didn't last. _

 

* * *

 

Time was dripping out of his hands, as a thick layer of tar would. And it burned. It burned in the back of his head. The headaches would come and go, Spencer knew them well, but they never  **burned** . Worst of all, he hadn’t slept a wink for two days. And it was starting to show at work. 

 

_ wait… _

 

_ insomnia? _

_ headaches?  _

_ irritability? _

 

_ Fuck, am I in withdrawal?  _

 

A knock on his front door pulled him out of his head. It had been a (tough) week since Hotch’s talk, he couldn’t think clearly anymore. He opened up to be met with- 

 

“ _ Derek? _ What are you doing here?”

 

“I just want to talk, kid”

 

_ What's so important he needed to walk all the way here? _

 

“Ok…?”

He gestured for the older man to come in. The clock struck midnight. 

 

_ Is it this early still? _

 

“I wasn't expecting anybody, so it’s kinda messy” 

 

Morgan took a few steps, looked around, like he did on cases. He frowned for a second.

 

“What were you reading?”

 

_ He comes into my house to profile me, wow _

 

“Reading?”

 

“You've got piles of books out of place as if you were searching for a particular one. Also there's a pencil on your coffee table and your tea is half down.”

 

“Was the profiling necessary?” 

 

It slipped right out of him, he couldn't help it. He hated the current situation. 

 

The other man stared.

 

_ What does he want?  _

 

“Fine, I was reading Keats.”

 

“Oh and that isn't tea, it's whiskey. The bottle's over there if you want some.”

 

The kitchen and the living room were practically the same room. A cup on the counter, individual sheets of paper, fruit. The bottle of whiskey was out of place.

 

“What's going on with you lately? You're drinking, ignoring me, being rude to JJ, disappearing out of nowhere…”

 

Reid was looking at him straight in the eye as he spoke. Morgan could have sworn his eyes glinted with anger, arrogance, defiance even. But the flare was suddenly gone. And he was finishing his cup of whiskey.

 

“I'm worried about you, kid”

 

_ really? or are you just angry i'm not your lapdog on cases anymore? _

 

“Why didn't you want to room with me?”

 

Silence.

 

“What?”

 

“On the case two weeks ago, you begged Hotch not to have to share a room with me. Why?”

 

He crossed his arms defensively, posture changing. Derek was uncomfortable with the question. But Spencer didn't care, he had stopped caring about comfort the moment he'd downed that whiskey. 

 

“I've been having nightmares lately. And i knew you still are a light sleeper. Didn't want to scare you or wake you up. That's all.”

 

_ he comes into  _ **_my_ ** _ house to  _ **_lie_ ** _ about it? wow _

_ just, _

_ wow _

 

“No, Morgan. There's something you are not telling me. You've had nightmares since before I met you. You told me that. And I have recurring nightmares too.”

 

“For god's sake, everyone on the team has them! About different people and cases and personal traumas. But everyone has them.” 

 

“Kid-”

 

“Tell me the  **_truth_ ** or go home. It's late already”

 

His lips pursed. Morgan didn't want to have that talk. He seriously didn't, not in a million years. But if that was what was bothering his friend, then,  _ did he have another choice? _

 

“I'd been contacted about that case a few days before. There was probably a mix up, the file was dropped at my desk instead of JJ's.”

 

_ why does he look so uncomfortable? _

 

“I heard when you told Hotch you were losing it, because I was losing it too. You're my friend and that sick monster took kids like you.”

 

_ … I don't follow. _

 

“I never told you, because you didn't need to know back then.”

 

“After the whole Tobias Hankel incident, when I closed my eyes I didn't see her eyes anymore. I saw  **_you_ ** tied to that chair, dying on the floor. Instead, this time, nobody was there to revive you. But after a few months it went away”

 

_ you never told me that fuck _

 

“And when I accidentally read the folder on my desk, and I saw the photos of the last victim on the screen, it came back. “

 

_ what the  _ **_hell_ ** _ is wrong with me _

 

_ i messed up messed up so badly i messed up! _

 

“What I'm trying to say is… I begged Hotch not to pair me up with you because I wouldn't have let you do anything. I couldn't bear having you near me.”

 

_ stop, please, stop apologizing, shit, stop! _

 

“I know it was all my fault, and I'm sorry if it upset you. That was not my intention-”

 

Both arms wrapped him all the way around. His grip tight. He took a deep breath when the other man reciprocated. 

 

“I'm so sorry, Derek.”

 

He unwrapped himself. The heels of his palms applied pressure to those eye sockets of his. The headache only got worse with alcohol. He thought it would numb him but it only burned more. And it stung when he closed his eyes.   _ Yeah, like you aren't just trying to hide the tears. Boo hoo, you're a bad friend.  _ **_Is that news?_ **

 

“I've been an ass this week, I apologize”

 

“It's all good, pretty boy.”

 

“Now, tell me, why are you drinking?”

 

“I…” he started, too focused on his headache to be able to lie convincingly. Half the time it turned out easier to tell the truth. “I thought alcohol would help with the headache.”

 

He realised how bad that sounded.  _ You may not be addicted to alcohol, but you sure are a useless junk- _

 

“Before you ask, yes, it's the first time i've done this. And no, ibuprofen didn't work”

 

Spencer sat down on the couch, he couldn't keep trusting his legs. They felt too weak, too much like cheap jam. His friend took the opposite chair. 

 

He had finally pieced it together. The dread was unbearable. It made him sick. He wanted to throw up all his worries. No matter the wording, he could never be subtle. He had to ask it. He had to. Maybe his friend needed the help. Maybe he had already asked and nobody had answered. Morgan was there, with his mind made up. 

 

He would help him, whether he wanted or not because he needed it. But first, he had to  _ check _ . He had  _ say _ it.

  
“Reid, you might not like me asking this but,” he  _ hated _ having to  _ do _ this, “can you roll your sleeves up?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (If anyone can tell me what do all chapter titles so far have in common, they win a cookie)


	6. the stars they glisten (seeming with bright eyes to listen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek finally gets his answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> extra tw for:  
> panic/anxiety attack  
> vomit  
> graphic depictions of self harm. (it's a description)
> 
> spoliers for:  
> season 6 through 8
> 
> stay safe <3

“Why?” panic rising like bile up the throat.

 

**_he knows_ **

 

_ he came here to tell you that all along.  _

 

_ he  _ **_hates_ ** _ you!  _

 

_ disgusting. _

 

**_weak_ **

 

_ useless junkie _

 

**_he_ ** _ knows  _

 

**_he knows he knows he knows he-_ **

 

“Did Hotch tell you?!” Betrayal. Anger. Panic. The young man couldn’t keep them at bay. He darted back and forth between Derek’s own eyes and the window. 

 

_ How could Aaron go behind his back like this? _

 

“Tell me what, Reid?” The anger he was holding back seeped through the cracks of his words. He was hurt. His friend and colleague was destroying himself and his other friends did nothing. Now he was the one that had to ask the hard questions. Always him.  **_And Hotch knew but did nothing?_ **

 

“Tell me that you’ve relapsed?”

 

His hair dangled in front of him, keeping a solid no. Denial. No more eye contact. The thickness of the tense atmosphere could have been cut with a knife. Or Derek’s gaze. Equally as sharp.

 

_ maybe he doesn’t know, maybe it’s a misunderstanding, maybe he didn’t say anything, maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe. _

 

“That you’re using again?”

 

He was further, or at least his face was. Still, no. He kept swinging his head. No. He was scared. No. Burying himself in the couch. No. Two years sober. No. Morgan had it all mixed up. No. He was sober. No.  _ He didn’t want to  _ **_tell_ ** _ him,  _ **_show_ ** _ him how  _ **_weak_ ** _ he  _ **_feels_ ** _ , he  _ **_is_ ** . No. He couldn’t breathe properly. No. Morgan wouldn’t stop talking, asking, inquiring. No. Morgan was relentless.  **_Fuck._ ** _ When did the room get smaller? _ No. He couldn’t see.  _ Why couldn’t he see? _ No. He couldn’t breathe.  **_Fuck, is this it?_ ** No.  _ Think.  _ Stop. Reset. No.  _ Go back.  _ His voice. Concentrate.  _ When did I close my eyes?  _ Warmth. Count. Throat. Stop…

 

**Breathe** .

 

**one.**

 

**two.**

 

**three.**

 

**four.**

 

**five.**

 

**six.**

 

**sev-**

 

Spencer emptied his guts. The table, sticky, along with the floor. And the edges of a book or two. 

 

Mouth still bitter, eyes glazed. But better. Fixated, he couldn't stop looking at his friend in the eye. Maybe he would get the apologies telepathically. Maybe he would understand what he wanted to say, without having to say it. Those chocolate browns, they were dark with a hint of defeat.  _ Maybe he’s trying to tell you something too.  _

 

_ Hey! _

_ Focus! _

_ Shouldn't you be cleaning this mess?  _

_ Or doing something about it at least?  _

 

“I’m not high”

 

It felt hazy, slow, suffocating. Reid's brain had quitted it's job and was currently enjoying a Mojito by the beach. It was the only explanation for how everything was turning out. 

 

Hesitation. He had to word it as coherently as he could. The intention was to be  _ clear.  _ As clear and slow as his thrashed throat allowed.

 

“I care what you think about me,” the other man visibly glancing at the brown puddle between the two “and if you need hard evidence that i'm not using then i'll give it to you. But I want you to promise me,” he wet his lips, tongue numb “promise me that you won't stop talking to me after this.”

 

_ shit shit shit shit shit shit shit what are you doing? what are you doing?  _

**_you'll regret it_ **

 

He held his hand and squeezed lightly. 

 

“I promise” 

 

And then let go.

 

He rolled his sleeves and Derek's heart skipped a beat. Mixed emotions was too light a term for what he was experiencing. Relief, for knowing Dilaudid wasn't a problem. Shock, fear, even pity for the intensity of the scars. Dread was the worst of them, because it coated everything else. What his friend had done to himself,  _ was doing to himself _ , he couldn't believe it.  _ But can you deny it? _ The evidence was there. The bursts of isolation, disappearing into the bathroom, sudden calm, easily irritable, mood shifts for no apparent reason,  _ he's a textbook cutter, Derek, and you didn't notice. Call yourself a profiler? _

 

He was staring at his arms. The nook of his elbow, to be more precise. And the scar tissue. And the small and big and angry lines. They were like x's on top of other x's on top of dots and circles and track marks and bruises that were still healing. At least none were fresh. They were quite old, the longer he looked the more convinced he was. Yet the dread in his stomach couldn't care less.

 

_ Was he trying to destroy the scars the needle left? _

 

He held a million questions inside and Spencer could see that. Yet, he understood the innate need for answers. 

 

The hard part wasn't going to be the explanation, but what comes after. What encompasses being aware. Derek was aware of his issue. Hotch was too. It's supposed to take a weight off you, to make it easier, to un-baffle the problem. Or at least that's what it said on every online blog or article he had read. And the time came now, but  **now** he couldn't keep up. Secrets weigh more on you when someone else knows them. And even more when they can cost you the relationships you worked hard for.  _ Because they are going to pity you and hate you and they can now see you how you see yourself, no more illusions, no more genius, just the useless pathetic junkie that you are and always will be. I bet th- _

 

 ** _Stop._** **_I'm too tired for this. Just. Stop._**

**_I don’t care anymore._ **

 

The stench of vomit was undeniably strong. The clouded hazel eyes blinked harshly, pulling back from the ache and thoughts on the back of his head. He could see the other man panicked, ever so slightly, and fumbling at finding the words he needed. He opened his mouth but-

 

“i’m tired, Morgan. I'm exhausted and I smell like bile and whiskey and semi-digested coffee.” A dark chuckle accompanied the statement.

 

_ Never thought i'd be saying  _ _ that _ _. Fucking ridiculous.  _

 

“I can answer your questions in the morning but right now, I… I need to take a shower.” He'd started noticing how gross he felt. The whole apartment was succumbing to the stench too. 

 

“O-okay. I guess then….”

 

His friend looked defeated, and he would give him the space he needed. Maybe it was for the better. He knew he needed to finish processing what had happened.

 

“I'll head home.” 

 

He had walked all the way to the door before turning, trying to make amends of some sort.

 

“But let me pick you up for breakfast, before work. We can talk with a  _ full _ stomach.”

 

“Yeah.” Spencer bit his lip, guilt overriding his senses.

 

Y _ ou  _ **_don't_ ** _ deserve a friend like  _ **_him_ ** _! _

 

He caught his arm on the way out, impulsively.

 

“It's really late, you can sleep here if you want. Honestly, the couch is more comfortable than my bed” Eyes pleading, begging him to stay. Desperate tone of voice, uncharacteristically  _ needy _ .

 

“Spencer, really. It's okay. I'll come back tomorrow at 7.”

 

Even if Derek didn't want to admit it, he was exhausted too. He ached for his bed and for a drive to clear his own head.

 

“Try to sleep, man.”

 

_ Is it selfish not to stay? _

 

“And remember to clean  _ that _ area” His thumb motioning towards the back, where the leather couch resided. A bit of humour could really lighten the mood. He couldn't leave with that fog still inside them both.

 

“Trust me, I will” 

 

* * *

 

That talk with Morgan at the coffee shop had lit a spark inside him. A spark of hope. A spark that started a fire for recovery. 

 

The following months were hard. The duress he was under with the death (and rebirth) of Emily had sent his achievements down the drain. But Spencer learnt something very valuable: recovery doesn't progress linearly. And knowing that despite the ups and downs he was going to make it through and that his friends had his back, well, that meant everything. Even with his perceived betrayal from JJ, he knew she would be there for him as she had in the past. The situation only needed time.

 

Of course, he had night were he felt his skin too tense and his arms too heavy. Nights were the only way not to give in to the itch was to stay on the phone until morning. Penelope always got a special coffee and vegan thai food the following day. She had an inhuman patience for him, and he had the best conversation starters for her. 

 

Hotch and Morgan would take turns on getting their pretty boy out of the house on the weekend, or after especially dark cases. Sometimes he would even babysit Jack, which were the best night for him. He loved reciting him the books his mother used to with him. Little Hotchner had an interest in dragons and damsels in distress, so the medieval fairy tales he remembered suited his needs perfectly.

 

Everything was going as smooth as it could. He'd taken to Blake already. Emily called from time to time from London, always happy to hear his rambles. Dave invited him over for italian movies from his childhood and good food. And with each day he felt closer and closer to a sense of normalcy, of healthy.

 

Maeve was ready to meet, too.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late upload! I had a busy week and before I noticed it was Monday again. The story obviously doesn't end here, the next chapter is already done. Gotta Beta it first though (does using the hemmingway app count as beta-ing? idk) Oh and I never mentioned but for me the story starts in the end of season 5 and then moves from there. 
> 
> Also, for everyone who realised I have a thing for Keats, you shall receive a (digital) cookie :)
> 
> Tune in on Friday for the next chapter! And feedback is always welcomed.


	7. mortality weighs heavily on me (like unwilling sleep)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spencer has to deal with her loss and his dark thoughts take advantage of that. He might not survive another week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BIG TRIGGER WARNING FOR :  
> SUICIDAL IDEATION/SUICIDAL THOUGHTS  
> self-harm (graphic)  
> graphic depiction of violence
> 
> spoilers for season 8  
> -  
> please, stay safe and don't read this if any of the mentioned above can be your trigger. 
> 
> And if you or your friend is thinking about suicide, these are all the international hotlines:   
> http://www.suicide.org/international-suicide-hotlines.html

 

Cold. Sore. He'd fallen asleep on the floor again, clutching the only thing he had from her. Arthur Conan Doyle. The book cradled between his arms like a child being nursed. Thomas Merton. He couldn't let go. How was he supposed to? How much more was he meant to go on like this? A hole had been burnt in his chest, his heart scooped clean, his mind filled with cement, his lungs full of smoke. The ache for old habits creeping up on him, along with new ones.

 

_ What day is it? _ **_i don't care_ **

 

_ What time is it?  _ **_afternoon maybe_ **

 

_ When did I last eat?  _ **_Yesterday? The night before last?_ **

 

_ Where's my phone?  _ **_too far_ **

 

Spencer heard García talking outside his door,  _ or is JJ the one talking?  _

 

They just wanted to check he was still alive. 

 

_ Maybe I wished I wasn't. _

 

Eyes wide open. And then forcefully closed shut. Those incessant thoughts had been taking over him the past week. No matter what he did, what he said, what he (tried to) read, it would all circle back to death. Her death. His fault. His own death. Nobody's fault.

 

It had made him cry at first, made him feel selfish, made him want to search for a distraction. Now, hell was loose and he'd entertain those thought as long as he could. He knew enough about the human body to know how to achieve a painless death. A painful one too. He was able to name and point all the major arteries and explain why and how long it would take to die if any of those were injured, cut, severed, broken.

 

Also, his revolver was in the safe. From experience, he knew how effective a bullet to the head was.  _ Just ask Dowd, or Hankel.  _

 

_ Or Hotch, he was there both times. _

 

_ Aaron Hotchner _ . 

 

He wondered if Hotch had had these exact thoughts when he grieved over Hailey. Instinct told him  _ no, he had to take care of Jack, he owed her that _ but his consciousness muttered  _ maybe, but he had something to live for  _ **_unlike you._ **

 

Unconsciously, he began drawing lines in his arm with his finger. His head against the door, body sprawled. Half sitting half lying there. Eyes still closed. It wasn't calming him down. That itch was back. 

_ Of course it's back, did you really think that  _ **_talking_ ** _ with your friends was the way to deal with addiction?  _

 

_ Pathetic. _

 

_ You knew this was going to blow up. _

 

_ This mess is yours and only yours. _

 

_ Pick yourself up and do something useful. _

 

_ Shut up! Shut up! _

 

He knew it wasn't the way to shut it up. He knew that. But he didn't care. It scared him how little he cared. There was a knife on the counter, blade gleaming. 

 

_ Relax.  _

 

_ It's what you want, don't you?  _

 

His breathing picked up when he held it. The weight. The blade. His legs were giving in. The floor met him as an old friend. Crawled and sat against the couch now, staring at the door. 

 

One. And it was slick.

 

Two more. The familiar sting.

 

Another two that turned to ten that turned to twenty more.

 

Each milimetrically deeper than the last.

 

Droplets and sweat.

 

And the haze cleared. His body trembled from the cold and the sobs and the dry heaves. He’d never gone that far, that deep. They weren’t meant to be that deep. Despite the blood loss he knew it wasn’t enough to kill him. It wasn’t enough to even need that much care. 

 

**_You should’ve gone deeper,_ **

 

**_Why hold back?_ **

 

**_If you want to be with her so desperately…_ **

 

**_open your eyes! you have no worth!_ **

 

**_why don’t you end it already?_ **

 

**_you could be with her, Spencer,_ **

 

**_you could stop your friend’s burden_ **

 

**_you could help_ ** **_them_ ** **_for once_ **

 

**_they are tired of you, tired of listening to you_ **

 

**_if they really wanted to help, they would’ve fixed something by now!_ **

 

**_they are waiting for you to do it!_ **

 

Spencer longed for the floor to open up and swallow him whole. Spencer ached for more pain he could control. Spencer wanted the girl of his dreams back. And maybe if he bled enough for her, she would stop bleeding. Always bleeding. Eidetic memory had cursed him to remember it as detailed as it happened. Her temples bleeding. Pale. Mangled caramel curls on crimson. Her body hitting the floor. 

 

He opened his eyes again. Pulled down his sleeves. The pain quieted down. The floor remained stained. And the thoughts remained on death.

 

Derek's voice startled him, and then he realized it was a voicemail going in. Another sigh escaped his cracked lips and floated through the closed curtains and out the open window. His mind drifted, playing scenarios for his funeral like a bad television drama. It gave him a chaotic type of solace. 

 

He still had another week of leave in front of him. 

 

* * *

 

Spencer had a shower for the first time in too many days. Carefully folded on his bed was today's outfit: most comfortable shirt, favourite sweater vest, best pants and oldest sneakers. 

 

The rooms reeked of bleach and cheap perfume. Spotless. Not even a speck of dust could be found. Furniture empty. Drawers, cabinets, wardrobe, everything. Empty.

 

All the baskets left outside were taken in, each one untouched but with a thank-you letter from him attached. They were neatly placed next to the boxes. Most read FOR CHARITY in neat block letters. But some were labeled FOR COLLEGE and FOR MOM. A small one said BAU. There he had stacked a pile of pictures, some manual transcripts from his favourite memories, and even a couple of bottles of expensive alcohol he'd never got around to drinking. Well, he would never have the chance now, and he knew Rossi would appreciate them more.

 

Perfectly clean, perfectly dressed, perfectly arranged, he went for his phone and gun. Sitting in the most comfortable chair, he laid the revolver on his lap. Dialing. He left a voicemails behind for each. Every number was an overwhelming effort. His mind raced back and forth. 

 

It was time to call her. He was starting to break. He needed calm. He needed slumber. There weren’t any tears left in his system. The next call, the first hesitation.  _ He owed them some memorable last words, right? _ Her pre-recorded message rang through him.

 

But she picked up just in time.

 

click.

 

_ “García, you know that i love you, right?” _

 

“R-Reid! h-” 

 

_ “and i am more than thankful for everything you've done, not only in the last weeks but the whole time i've known you.“ _

 

“What’s wrong? Please, you’re scaring me.”

 

The contrast between Spencer’s mellow (yet) anxious tone against Penelope’s high-pitched panic gave everything away.

 

_ “You are unique, Penelope. You are a spec of rhodium on the earth's surface. You are a rare occurrence. And you shine. You are the true resident genius, like Morgan says. I know you always will be and always have been. “ _

 

“Oh God, stay on the phone. Don’t go. Please. Please.” García could only beg as she typed and typed. 

 

“Keep talking to me, please.” She was going to send help his way. His location pinged on her screen. Morgan was on speed dial from her desk.

 

_ “I'm sorry, Penelope.” _

 

_ “I love you.” _

 

* * *

 

Slender fingers caressed the barrel of the gun, body shivering at the touch of cold steel. His body was responding in anticipation, temperatures rising, adrenaline pumping. His veins were full of determination and it flowed fast. It was time for the shit show.  ~~ And he meant that in the denotative way. Once he died, his sphincters would relax and end up releasing everything ~~ . Sometimes he hated thinking so much.

 

He was facing the door, and the wall next to him had the shower curtain still duct taped on. It is said that males don't care about the mess they leave behind when they commit suicide but for Reid it wasn't true. He didn't want his friend to have a hard time picking up his brains from the walls. And he also wanted it to be easier for his apartment to be sold later on. So, to keep the green wallpaper impeccable, he duct taped the shower curtain onto the wall.

 

Hazel eyes open, back straight, cool metal against his temple.

 

It had 3 bullets inside. He knew he would only need one but he loaded more just in case. Life encompassed the unexpected and he would be prepared. 

 

What he wasn't prepared for was what came bursting through the door. To be more specific, not what, but who. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the late upload! 
> 
> I hope this wasn't too dark. And if anything is too much please let me know and I'll rewrite it and re-upload it. 
> 
> Next chapter (next friday) will have a lot of dialogue and i'll take what y'all told me and make it clearer! 
> 
> Thank you all for leaving comments and kudos and everything, it means a lot to me.
> 
> I'm waiting on your feedback, as always. Stay tuned!


	8. to question heaven and hell and heart in vain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek deals with a panicked Penelope.   
> Hotch will never forgive himself.   
> Rossi shows up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra tw:  
> mentions of suicidal tendencies/suicide attempt  
> hospitals (?)
> 
> Stay safe!

 

“DEREK!” a boom of sound pierced through the speaker.

 

He could've sworn an eardrum popped from her enthusiasm. But with every second, it sounded more and more like panic. 

 

“Whoa, baby girl, w-”

 

“REID IS IN DANGER! He just called me and, and-” Breathless, she had to explain everything and fast. His live signal had disconnected but it hadn't moved from his house. 

 

“What happened?” Morgan kept the phone between his shoulder and cheek. Still stuck inside his car, waiting for the jam to clear.

 

“He told me goodbye. Like  _ i am in mortal danger and never seeing you again _ goodbye. I checked his location and he's home.” García bit her tongue. She didn't know for sure. But he had to be.

 

“Ok, I am 35 minutes away. Dave is already on his way home, he’s closer. I’ll call him, he'll check up on him.” 

 

He needed to be calm and reassuring for his baby girl. Even if he was just as scared as her. 

 

“We'll get to him. I promise.”

 

And with that, he was about to dial Rossi when it popped up. A missed call.

 

* * *

 

 

“What do you mean the kid’s suicidal?” Rossi's anger was all shock. The italian man continued, denial was settled inside and didn't plan on leaving any time soon. 

“He can’t be, Derek! Someone must have a gun to his head. It doesn’t m-” His strong grip on the wheel was justified. Almost screaming at his phone on speaker, the other man's voice cut him off.

“Check your voicemail.” Pain and horror dripped from every syllable, but frustration was the winner. He was stuck in traffic on his way home while Reid could be in danger. And he had no way to turn around and help.

“What? I don’t have the time. I’m getting the son of a bitch who’s holding Reid.”

 

* * *

 

 

Hotch got home from a long day at work. Without Spencer, paperwork got slower and even the whole bullpen seemed to be at a different headspace. Without Spencer, he’d noticed JJ left early and García stayed up late. It was strange to be without him.

 

He brushed those thought off and cooked something quick for Jack. Soon enough he was already tucked in and asleep, peacefully asleep. Finally, Hotch had some time for himself. Taking into account the kind of workaholic that he's always been, he didn’t watch TV or read a book once he got home. No. He checked his phone for any important work calls. That’s when he saw it. 

  1. missed call from S. REID



He blinked in surprise. Checking the time stamp, he realised it had been over **two** **hours** ago. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t heard it. It was too late to return it. _Hopefully he’s left a message._

It slipped through his hands. His stomach did a flip. Eyes watery, mouth numb. Reid’s message was a suicide note. A very textbook, desperate and resolute suicide note. 

Still perplexed, he picked his car keys forgoing a jacket and second gun and headed out. He had to get to the young doctor’s house and check on him. 

The night, eerily silent. It didn’t help his nerves, his guilt. 

_ What if he’s _ **_dead_ ** _ there and I’m the one who didn’t stop him by answering the call?  _

_ How many more are you going to let down, Aaron? _

_ How many more are going to die because of  _ **_your_ ** _ mistakes? _

He had probably sped through a yellow light or two, but time was of the essence. That’s how he justified it to himself. The chase, the voice he couldn’t stop replaying, the way his hands gripped the steering wheel. He hated the familiarity. He  _ hated _ it. 

Using his backup key, he went straight for the stairs. Second floor.

_ He could have survived a two story j- _

He had to  **stop** that thought right in its tracks. 

Too silent for an apartment complex. Too bright. It didn't quite fit the scene. Shaking hands brushed the doorknob. It wasn't locked. It was closed but not locked. Spencer always locked the door. That's how the alarm system got activated. Fuck. He didn't know how to admit that he was scared. Terrified. Freaked out. What would he find behind that door? Too much. The bright lights of the hallway were too much. One deep breath, and in he stepped.

Empty. Dark. No sign of life. No sign of Dr. Spencer Reid anywhere. There were boxes and gift baskets turned on their side. A shower curtain half ripped on the wall. Dry blood near the couch along with thick shards of glass. His name escaped those chapped lips, less of a word and more of an strangled sob. No response. Not a stir. Not a  **sound** . Tried again and again as the tears flowed free. He'd never lost his composure like that. Blurry vision. He stumbled into the bathroom. No one. He kept trying. Bedroom? Still no answer. He'd already checked the kitchen. Where would he be? Where else could he be? 

_ You're a profiler, think! _

Aaron collapsed on the chair caught in between the mess. Headache. He'd turned on the lights but they were giving him a headache. Shielding himself with his hand, that's when he caught it. The trash can. Leaning closer, over. He could count at least 5 knives. And Reid's revolver. Nothing made sense. Or at least he couldn't make sense of anything with that fog. He had to call someone.

_ “Dave, I need you- I  _ _ need _ _ you to listen to me ”  _ Hotch was having a hard time speaking through the knot in his throat. 

“You can't use your phone in here, sir” Rang in the background. Dave wasn't talking. No. That voice was too young. Too feminine. But it was too subtle for him to hear properly. His whole world was inside a fish tank. A fish tank with bad reception. A beep and the call was disconnected.

_ Damnit! _

_ I should've taken care of my hearing loss after New York.  _

_ How many bad choices have I made in these years?  _

_... _

_ That many, uh? _

All he wished in that moment was for a chance to turn back time. But he couldn't. Stuck with all his mistakes. Stuck with the uncertainty. Stuck.

Someone had to know something. Someone must.

 

 

* * *

 

 

David Rossi had never experienced anything quite like that night before.

 

His legs bounced up and down on the plastic chair. Powerful disinfectant. Mint green and light blue and white. Pure white. The rings slided around his fingers, couldn't help but fidget. Gaze between his feet, hunched over. Looking left, a nurse hurried past him and out the doors.

 

He hadn't noticed she was still there.

 

The psychiatric wing of the hospital was almost empty. The only person in the waiting area other than him was a young lady. She was already there when they'd arrived. Calmly reading a book. He could make the title clearly on the black cover,  _ De Profundis _ by Oscar Wilde. After realizing he had stared a little too long, he closed his eyes and sunk back further into the seat.

 

“ _ Spencer! Spencer, put the gun down. I just want to talk.” Adrenaline. Shock. Morgan was right. How could they have let this happen? Hadn't García been checking up on him? _

 

_ His thin frame sweating, still perfectly sat straight on the chair.  _

 

_ Rossi got closer and closer, knocking over baskets in the process.  _

 

_ The revolver was suddenly aiming towards him. It was so close, so tantalizingly close. Maybe he could… _

 

_ And the struggle. No air. He didn't have that much stamina left. He'd stepped on glass. Oh god the glass in his arm. Tears. Blood. Sweat. Grasping onto something,  _ **_anything_ ** _. The revolver was his. He'd won. But it didn't feel like winning. The floor. And the sobs raking the small frame and the tears up and down. Up and down. Up and down. Up- _

 

A buzz cut his train of thought. His phone was buzzing.

 

But just as he picked up, it slipped through his fingers. A nurse heard the clatter and informed him their no phone policy. And he ended the call. Hoping it could wait, he pocketed it and sank back. His eyes travelled back to her book. Up and down her book. A blonde doctor came for her. All alone now.

 

It was going to be a long, restless, night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey pals, I'm not dead! Sorry I've been absent, eveything is nuts down here lately.
> 
> So, I'm not really happy with how this chapter turned out. I rewrote it around 3 times and I'm still not sure. It just feels like a filler. And I don't really know much about hospitals. 
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy it, though! 
> 
> I'm trying to stick with the friday schedule as much as i possibly can. 
> 
> Feedback is always welcomed ;3


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